A Flap of the Eagle's Wing
by Paranoid-American20
Summary: A world torn into power blocks...maniacal plans that threaten the lives of every nation, and a twisted course of history that should never have happened...When America is taken, it's time for old grievances to be laid aside, and the fate of the free world rests in the hands of an unlikely rescue squad. Rated for dark themes, death, and possible foul language.


Prologue:

The young man looked like death.

He felt like death; too many meetings, too many talks, too close together. He just wanted to sleep, to rest, wrapped in blankets that just barely covered his well built frame, to sleep on his bed that had obviously seen better days. He just wanted...no, he needed, just a handful more hours of rest.

The alarm clock had other ideas.

Its ringing was an unrelenting assault on his ears, and it forced him to painfully open one of his blue eyes to glare at the shrieking clock, the world around him blurry. Such was the drawback of his poor eyesight, he tiredly mused, as he languidly stretched out a pale arm to paw the small bedside cabinet that his glasses rested on, right in front of the still screaming clock.

As he brought the glasses to his face, he began to feel a slight pounding in his head, groaning as it got worse with each movement he made, and he felt that sharp pain in his chest that had been plaguing him for the past year or so, which also grew worse as he shifted his weight on to an elbow, letting the blankets fall slightly from his form, while he just continued to glare at the despicable device that was screaming for him to wake.

It was bright red, with ringing bells, and underneath the clock's face, in large, white letters, it read: ' _Product of H. Hughes and Co. Civilian appliances.'_

When the he could finally see clearly, he saw that the time was only seven thirty in the morning, if he had read the spindly ticking hands correctly, and he groaned in annoyance. Carefully, as he was sure that he was at his full senses, he slowly swung his legs out from under the blankets, and just sat there for a few minutes, just trying to breathe through his pain. Still that clock was shrieking at him.

It stopped shrieking when it collided with the opposite wall, resting in a couple of pieces next to a dusty and scarred bookshelf.

He held his head in his hands, sighing as he felt the pain slowly beginning to creep its way through his body...The drugs that infected the water were to blame, he knew, despite the doctor arguing that it was just a sign of his age. He couldn't... wouldn't believe it.

He didn't know how long he sat there on the bed. It felt like hours to his clouded mind, but he knew it couldn't have been more that a couple of stretched minutes.

He noticed that his glasses had a faint, hairline crack across the right lens, and he growled in annoyance. That hadn't been there yesterday, he was sure of it. Frankly, however, he was amazed that he had noticed it. So much was happening in the world, and too much was happening for him to notice it all. He sighed again, and decided to properly get out of his bed.

Slowly, very slowly, he dragged his body from the bed, and was soon stood on the bare wooden floorboards that creaked under his barefooted weight. He was just as slow in dragging himself to the simple, wooden wardrobe that stood on the right side of the room's only window, which was letting light in despite the best efforts of the cotton curtains that were the room's latest feature.

He stood in front of the wardrobe, opening the side with the broken hinge, promising to himself that he'd go out to buy a new one. He had the coupons for one. He just couldn't be bothered to go.

His scarred hands traced themselves over the sparse items of clothing that hung from their metal hangers in the old, worn wardrobe.

He past his hands over a torn, and years discarded, bomber jacket, trying to promise to himself that he would rid himself to it, just as he had done to his old storage room. In the modern world, who needs the past?

He finally settled on a pair of grey slacks, white shirt, black tie. It was a current trend in the nation, one that had been going for quite a while. It was simple, and it would make him look smart, for once in his life, although he had no one to look smart for. Hadn't had anyone to look smart for in a long, long while.

Shortly, he was dressed, and he dragged his aching body down the bare wooden stairs that creaked and groaned under weight, and he shuffled from the downstairs hall and into the small kitchen that had, like most of his belongings, been neglected for some years. Not that he, or anyone else cared.

He was about to move into the dark lounge that he had been spending most his time, watching the news-feed constantly blaring its sycophantic half truths and white lies on an hourly basis, while he huddled down amongst his papers and the discarded official documents that he had long been stopped from needing to sign, when there was a knock at the door.

He froze, and waited…

And waited…

The knocking came again, louder, more forced, and it startled him out of any sleepy notions that he may still have possessed. He spun to the front door, and glared at it, before slowly making his way to it.

The knocking came again, even louder, violent, and the man could feel himself trembling slightly as his hand reached for the handle, turning it, and opening the door to the world.

Before him stood five people, people that he neither knew nor recognized.

In front of him was the man that he could perceive to be the one in charge. He was a short man, with a black, walrus moustache and the beady eyes to match. He wore a black suit and tie over a crisp white shirt and black vest, and his small hands rested in the pockets of his black slacks. The four other men behind him were dressed the same, except that they had red ties, instead of his black tie.

"So glad you've finally answer the door, boy. Can we come in? We have matters of the State to discuss with you." Before the man had time to answer, the five black suits had barged their way into his home, invading what little space he could call his own. When the last of them had filed in, he stood with the door open, for a few moments, trying to understand what was happening.

"Come here, boy, and take a seat," the walrus moustached man barked from the lounge, and the 'boy' found his body complying to the order, even though his mind was screaming at him to run as fast as he could away from these men.

He found the walrus moustached man standing in the middle of the lounge, as his two of his four cronies set about opening the curtains, and the other two stood, flanking the only armchair in the house.

"Sit there, boy," ordered the man, gesturing to the flanked chair, and its owner had no choice but to comply, sinking himself slowly into the frayed and generally damaged chair.

"You are Alfred F. Jones, am I correct?" the man asked, glaring intensely at the young man in the chair. "The embodiment of these here United States of America?" he added when he didn't get a reply right away.

"Y-Yeah...I'm Alfred...W-Who are you?" he hated himself for sounding weak, for sounding scared, but there was a reason that he had locked himself away for so long.

"You know who we are...or are you really that thick?" Alfred flinched slightly. Normally, he should have been able to take that, but it had been so long. He really felt that pathetic, that weak.

Useless.

There was silence, and the man seemed to be staring into Alfred's soul through those beady, brown eyes of his. Moments passed, and then,

"Hm...Very well then, boy...I'm Jonathan Hicks, committee representative of the Maryland branch of the House Un-American Activities Committee," he had reached into his suit jacket, and pulled out a small leather book, emblazoned with an eagle and a few other things that Alfred could not make out, "and we have order, on behalf of the government of the United States and President Harold Brown, to arrest you for anti-American sentiments. Restrain him, boys."

Before Alfred could even speak, he felt two heavy and strong hands on his shoulders, and their was an unmistakable click of a revolver next to his ear.

"We have it on good authority that you were trying to contact Geneva, and NATO, on the seventeenth of April, twenty-fifteen, and you will be rightfully taken in for a proper...American...interrogation. Anything in this home of yours that ties you to the filthy reds will only make things worst for you. Just pray that you don't have anything _that_ incriminating. Search the place," he said, gesturing to the two other men that he had with him while flicking through that little book of his, finding the page he wanted, before replacing it back into the confines of his suit, and the men swiftly disappeared away into the depths of the house..

"Y-You can't do this! I'm America! Alfred F. Jones!" Alfred yelled, only to hear the revolver click once more next to his ear.

"Correction. You _were_ Alfred F. Jones. Now, you're a prisoner, with no rights or name. And if I had my way, you'll remain that way for the rest of your life. Take this pinko away, boys."

As the men made to lift the shocked nation to his feet, Alfred felt the rage build inside of him.

"This is unconstitutional! This is against the Constitution!" he started to struggle, he was blind to the danger posed by the loaded handgun right next to his head.

Jonathan Hicks just smiled a cruel smile, and he walked till he stood right in front of the struggling young man, his men just barely keeping a grip on him.

"Newsflash, boy. The Constitution's under revision," and with that, he drew his fist back and punched Alfred right in the face, ceasing his struggling as he fell limp in the black suit's grip.

Hicks sighed, "Take him to Cheyenne Mount. We'll have our first interrogation in a couple of day's time, before those hacks at Central Intelligence take him to Cuba."

The men complied, and dragged the unconscious nation away out of the house.

Jonathan Hicks followed after them, walking out of the house, leaving the rest of his men to their own search, trudging down the worn garden path, to a black sedan that his men were already hauling the dead-weight of America into the back-seat.

A lone man stood by the passenger door, smiling as he saw Jonathan approaching. He opened the car door, still smiling at the other man.

"Well done, sir! We've suffered the commies too long, haven't we?"

"Shut up, Maine. I needed you to follow something up for me," he said gruffly as he leaned on the car door. Maine's smile faltered slightly, but he retained his professional composure and smile.

"And what would that be, sir?"

Jonathan reached into his suit jacket again, and pulled out that little book, and flipped to a page within. "Send a message to Columbia and Virginia. Tell them," he tore a page out of that little book, "to find this 'Arthur Kirkland' in those fascist NATO countries, contact the Pinkertons, and…" he stopped as he handed the torn page to the bemused state, and looked straight into his eyes as he finished saying,

"...have him eliminated."


End file.
